Golden Throat (Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 1)

by James P. Alsphert

  His eyes widened until the whites predominated. “I don’t know! I don’t know! All go boom! Soon! Drain away, go away—sign—awww….not good! Money boom—zoom!” He made a gesture like he was kicking something invisible high into the air. “But I don’t know! Cigarette good! Lucky Strike, ha! ha! good!” Then he began to move back and forth like a pendulum of a clock. “They kill—car go boom, too! But I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  He must’ve psychically picked up on the car bombing below my office the day before. “Yeah, they thought it was me. These same goons blew up a car right in broad daylight. Remember when I went on the train to Frisco? And you directed me to the Lark? Well, it’s that same batch of idiots who want this golden capsule with some kind of mystic code—”

  “—danger, Cable! Danger! But I don’t know! I don’t know! All…everything…comes boom! …the photes—the photes are coming! Go away, Cable Denning…run! Oh….cry….cry…” Crazy Jack began to sob and sat down on the sidewalk where we stood. “I don’t know! Jack cry…cigarette.” He reached for my pant leg and pulled back and forth on it, sobbing. “Jack like Cable…hide…they find you every—everywhere—but I don’t know…I don’t know…!” I bent down to help the distraught man. He took my hand and his twitching, blue-grey eyes looked into mine as if he were looking for something. “But Cable Denning not run…not like him…but I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “What’s this thing about money going ‘boom-zoom’ or whatever you said? I don’t get it. The nation’s more prosperous than ever before. Life is good for a lot of Americans. The banks are lending, Wall Street, the Spring Street Financial District are booming—people can buy houses and cars—shit, Jack, we’re in the middle of prosperity.”

  Jack was shaking. “I don’t know! I don’t know! People jump—boom! windows—look! Up there!” I looked up at one of the tall buildings he was pointing out. I saw nothing except pigeons chasing each other on a ledge. I chalked it up to hallucinations and thought it had not been a good day after all to seek out Crazy Jack. I took a few bucks from my pocket. “Here, Jack, buy yourself a hamburger and a milk shake.”

  He gave me one of his nervous half smiles. “Cable always good to Jack! Get straw-colored girl from bad place…” Then he did a strange thing. He took a hand and cupped his crotch. “Oh…they like—ouch! hurt Cable Denning—but I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “Who wants to hurt what, Jack? You’re not making a lot of sense today. I know you’ve always warned me about Honey being at the Bella Notte, but it’s a gold mine for her. And this crotch thing…does it have to do with seeing too many babes—or what?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” He reached into his torn pocket and took out another Lucky Strike. “Cigarette! Cigarette! Good…” I lit his smoke and he put it in his mouth. Then he took both hands, palm open, and rubbed them across his belly. “No baby…come…Ha! Jack cannot have baby! But I don’t know! I don’t know! Ha!”

  I left Jack sitting on the sidewalk, smoking and mumbling to himself. Poor bereft misfit, I thought. He never had a chance in this world. Somewhere in his brain wires got left out or crossed and he’d forever be in the ranks of the disenfranchised of the society in which he lived. Yet he had this uncanny psychic thing. Still, I could not make heads or tails out of his blithering this day.

  Ginny Fullerton lived in a freshly painted large two-story affair that was populated by young single women. I discovered that when I arrived to pick her up. A rather tall, breathy sounding young thing stood smoking on the stoop of the house. The porchlight was on and she was wearing a yellow kimono and slippers. “I’m—I’m looking for Ginny Fullerton—do you happen to know her?”

  “Are you kidding, Mister? You can tell a country hick a mile away. I suppose she’s sweet and all—but between the two of us—very naïve. I don’t think she’s cut out for city living. Who are you?”

  “I’m…I’m, uh, her dinner date.”

  She looked me over. “How does Ginny rate a stud like you? She doesn’t seem the kind who puts out easy—you must have a magic charm or—”

  “—look, lady, I’m not really interested, if you don’t mind. Just tell me where to find Miss Fullerton.”

  “Now it’s Miss Fullerton—well, sorry there buster.” She ground out her cigarette in an abalone shell on the porch railing. “So I guess I’m a little out of line, talking that way to your sensitive masculine ears. Get used to it—girls are bitchy and filled with envy, and don’t forget jealous and possessive. You couldn’t be much older than me, now, could you? I’m good at sizing up guys—”

  “—now look, whoever you are, I need to—”

  “—you do want to know where Ginny’s…bedroom is…don’t you? Second floor, third door to the left. And there are house rules. No men after ten p.m. So let me finish. It’s a hobby of mine, sizing up guys for gals. Now you…hmmm…let me see…you work for yourself…or maybe—yeah, you have that clean-cut cop look. Are you a cop?”

  “Good guess,” I said impatiently. “Used to be.”

  “See? Monica knows her stuff. Now…as far as your taste in the fairer sex…me, not included, because I don’t dig guys. Hmmm…I’d say you like variety and don’t force yourself. You make ‘em want you, right?”

  Just then Ginny appeared in the doorway to save me. “Cable!” she exclaimed, happy to see me. Then she looked at Monica. “Oh…I see you’ve met Monica. I’m sorry…she should be locked up—”

  “—keep your trap shut, ya hick! I was just sizing up your new lay here—and I guess you could do worse. I enjoy minding other people’s business. You know why? Because most of the time they haven’t got the guts to be honest. Someone has to point out to them that they’re just not all they think they are.”

  “Well, I can’t say it’s been pleasant talking to you, because it hasn’t. I let you foam at the mouth, Monica, because women like you, no matter what side of the sex fence you’re on, give the female gender a bad name. And sooner or later you put your foot in your mouth. So, happy chewing…” I said as I took Ginny’s arm and we walked toward the street and the streetcar stop.

  When we were out of earshot from Monica, Ginny breathed out a deep breath. “Sorry about her. She’s everybody’s pain in the ass. I think she’s a little unbalanced or something. What do you think?”

  “She might have gotten a warped outlook from her childhood, is my guess. She got sexually all mixed up and must have found men repulsive. But when she looked at her own sex, that wasn’t so hot, either. So she’s a fence rider and sour that she doesn’t know how to find emotional or sexual fulfillment.”

  “Who does?” Ginny answered. She stopped us and gave me a big hug. “Anyway, I’m so happy to see you again.”

  She was wearing a light-blue dress with nice reddish heels, an off-white light coat and her hair was done up in a bun. “Likewise, doll. You look very becoming tonight, Ginny,” I said, checking her out.

  “Thanks, Cable. Not too bad for a backwoods girl, huh? Where are we going?”

  “Well, if you’re up to it, there’s a new club on Beverly Boulevard near Virgil…not too far from here… decent food and I hear there’s a great band for dancing, as well. Are you game?”

  “I’d go anywhere with you, Cable, you know that. And besides, I’m single and fancy free. God, I was reading that women in some other countries have no rights at all. I know there can be a double-standard here, but these women have to keep covered up when in public—even their faces—and a husband has the right to kill his wife if she commits even the smallest infraction.”

  “Yeah, you’re talking about a lot of places. India, China, the mid-East, even Latin America—any place where a male’s need for superiority under the guise of politics and religion suppress a woman’s rights as a human being. Islam, Hindus, even some Christian societies, make the woman barely more than a baby-making machine and a cook.”

  “That’s terrible. I’ll bet if we had a baby, you’d give me full rights in the house
hold, huh?”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I chuckled. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. I might be this outrageous male chauvinist pig and tie you to the bed, take you constantly at my whim and beat you when you’re bad.”

  She giggled as we boarded the streetcar. We sat and she grabbed my hand. “God, Cable, I have to say it again. Thanks for keeping your word.”

  “That’s me, babe, Old Stick-to-it Denning here.”

  We rode along in silence for a while. “Interesting name for a night spot…did you say Rooftop or something like that?”

  “The Roof Garden…well, if you can believe it…it is actually at the top of a 14 story storage building. It’s called the American Storage Building and you have to take an actual freight elevator up to the very top. I guess it is sort of a speak-easy with music for dancing provided by George Redman and his Roof Garden Orchestra. They do a remote radio broadcast in the evening. That’s actually where I heard about it.”

  “You mean it is actually a real storage building?...to store furniture and boxes inside? I wonder why someone would think to put a nightclub up there on the top of that?"

  “Well…you know we are living in a restless world these days…and people are always trying to think up something unique to get an edge over their competition.”

  “You’re so smart, Cable. Most men are so boring because they think they know a lot, but you really do.”

  “Thanks, Ginny, I’ll take that as a compliment. You’re no dummy yourself, for a country hick, that is.”

  She lightly punched me on my shoulder. “You!”

  We arrived at 3636 Beverly Boulevard and if you didn’t know better, you’d never guess there was a night spot on top of this formidable 14 story building. We found the elevator and were eventually transported to the sights and sounds of the ‘Nite Club De Luxe’. We walked into a crowded, noisy den. It was a place where people came to drink, smoke and yell…trying to talk to another person above the din. The Roof Garden Orchestra had just started…featuring a hot jazz guitarist and they were playing an up-tempo version of Honey’s Makin’ Whoopee. Ginny and I sidled to the bar, got a waiter to find us a table and twenty minutes later we were sitting about three tables away from the bandstand. Ginny was glowing in the candlelight and her fresh, young face was alive with curiosity and you could tell this was the first time she’d been to such a place. “Oh, Cable, I love it! It’s like soaking in a new rain…it feels so refreshing to hear people let their hair down, enjoy the music and all.”

  “That’s sort of my take on it. Music and this atmosphere bring a certain life to me, too. I wouldn’t wanna be without it in my life.”

  “I understand…me too.” She took my hand again. “You know, when you were talking about tying me to the bed and having your way with me, I got this rush. I wanted to say right then and there that I love you, but I didn’t want people in the streetcar to hear it.” She looked at me with those peepers of hers. “But I do, Cable. I really do. It’s not puppy love or anything like that. It’s the grown woman part that longs for you when I can’t get you out of my mind and days go by—”

  “—Ginny…I’m sorry…I’m very flattered by what you’re saying. But you’re forgetting a couple of things here, aren’t you? One, I’m getting married in about four and a half months—and second, you promised you’d accept me on my terms—like good old friends, right?”

  She shut down. I hated to do that to this very pretty young thing who had somehow become enamored, with one of those fantasies women often have to idealize her Prince Charming. She sipped her fizz and I got my flask out and poured a little gin into it. “This will make me feel better?” she asked, looking at me with all sorts of questions in her eyes.

  “I don’t know, but maybe it’ll help you forget. Tonight’s our night, kid, let’s enjoy. Would you like to dance?”

  She lit up. “Yes, I would. We haven’t danced since that time in your little cabin in Big Bear, remember?”

  “Yep, that was a fun evening, wasn’t it?” I took her hand and we went out onto the dance floor as that sexy jazz guitar launched into It Had to Be You, a song Honey had auditioned with at the Bella Notte a year or so ago. Ginny merged her body into mine and we fit just fine. Her back was a bit stiff, so I put my open hand at the bottom of her waist and told her to relax. She did and I could feel her warmth invade me like a cup of nectar being poured over my body.

  As she put her lips on my neck, I got a chill. “Cable,” she whispered. “Why is life so incomplete, so frustrating? Here I am with you. I’m very happy, but I’m crying inside at the same time.”

  I spoke in a low tone. “I’m not sure I can answer that, doll. I think we are intended to be or do something—and it just isn’t always as we’ve planned. That’s life. I could tell you stories, but I won’t bore you.”

  “I wish you would…” she said, still nuzzling at the nape of my neck. I was thinking of the bittersweet irony of loving two women. I loved and was crazy about Honey, but in that minute when the jazz guitarist twanged out the music to the words, ‘the mere idea of you, the longing here for you, you’ll never know how slow the moments go 'til I’m near to you…I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above…it’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love…,’ Adora’s face was in front of me and I realized I was in love with that smoldering little Latina who lifted her skirt to sit on my chest and opened my heart to some version of unconditional love. The test for me was who would I want to end up with on a desert island—and hands down, it came up Adora. The music stopped and we sat back down.

  As the evening wore on, Ginny was feeling no pain from the lousy gin I had been pouring into her carbonated fizz. “You’re a truth guy, right?” she spoke up, a little inebriated. “Truth is, it’s very diffi—diffi—difficult—hic!—to be with someone—someone you don’t have a future with. I mean, if this were a—a normal relationship…I would know I’d see you…again—hic!—and you’d be taking me home to make love—make love to me…”

  I’d had a few drinks myself and slurred over the thoughts that would have brought a cohesive end to the conversation. “Yeah…if it was a normal relationship…but you don’t know, kid…and no woman should have to live—live on the edge all the time, never knowing if or when her intended might—might drop by to be her passionate lover for the night…”

  “I’d even settle for that with you, Cable. Just to know you’d—you’d make love to me…like you did at my aunt’s house…”

  “Forget it, kid.” There was a lively version of I’m Sitting on Top of the World being played by the orchestra. “Tell you what…we need to put some life into our step—not this morose romantic slush…let’s kick up our heels, young lady, okay?”

  She took my hand again, but as we got out onto the floor the fast song ended and immediately after the applause, a love song started up. This time it was Jerome Kern’s ‘Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man of Mine’ from a wonderful musical play, Showboat. It was 1927 when it came out and I remember taking Amanda Baxter to see a preview concert version downtown at the Alhambra Theatre on Hill Street. The music was exhilarating, powerful, beautiful, and poignant—all the things good music should be. I thought it was Kern’s best work. I also remember sitting there in the dark with Amanda Baxter’s hand feeling up my leg toward my private parts. She was a sensual dame who had been sexualized by her incest-motivated father. But I didn’t know that at the time.

  Ginny broke me out of my reverie. “I love this song, I even know some of it. She began to sing in a breathy, warm voice into my ear as we slow danced on the crowded floor. ‘…he can come home late as can be, home without him ain’t no home to me, can’t help, lovin’ that man of mine…’ See? I do know some of it.”

  “Yeah, kid, that was fun! You’re pretty—pretty sexy when you sing, you know.”

  “I—I am…?” she stuttered, still a bit drunk. “Then, Mr. Denning, you should desire me—here and now—here—here and—hic!—now!”


  “Right here…on the floor?” I kidded her.

  “Yep. That way—that way I’ll have—hic!—proof that you made love—made love to me.”

  I laughed. “I like you, Ginny Fullerton.” I don’t know what got into me, but in the crowded darkness I moved my hand up Ginny’s leg to her crotch and squeezed. I could feel her body collapse in surrender.

  “Oh! What—what—hic!—are you doing, Cable? You’re going to kill me…aren’t you—with love? But don’t stop…I would never want you to stop.” She started breathing heavier. “Take me home, please. I’m feeling—feeling a bit, uh, dizzy…hic!”

  We rode toward Ginny’s rooming house pretty much in silence. She held on to my hand and wouldn’t let go for a second. When we got off the streetcar and heard it clang away down the street, she turned to me. She took a deep breath and grabbed my neck, bringing my head down to her lips. She forced them onto mine and the wet warmth went through me like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. “I—I have to tell you, Cable…my—hic!—my truth, Mr. Truth Man. I can’t let you go home without—without having you—and letting my body be filled with your—your…you know…”

  The cool night air sobered me up a bit. “Ginny…oh, Ginny. You see what a mess we’ve already created? I’m not—not as strong as you might—might think. I’m a sucker—a real sucker for a babe’s warm, wet kiss. So…there you have it…but you gotta send me…on…my way…”

  “I can’t, Cable, I can’t.”

  She took my hand and we walked toward her rooming house and climbed the front steps. When we got to the big front door I stopped her. “You have a ten o’clock curfew—and it’s—it’s way past ten, lady,” I said, fighting my growing desire.

  “Mrs. Murphy sleeps with…with toilet paper in her ears. She’s also hard of hearing. Girls bring their guys up all the time,” she said quietly. She led me into the hallway and we climbed a flight of stairs up to the second floor. She stopped at the third door at the end of the hall and used her key to open it. She took my hand and led me straight to her bed, which was a pull-down, now opened in the middle of the room. She smiled at me. “Women…women scheme…all the time, Cable. I’m like—like—hic!—the spider woman, luring you into—into her web.”